


Beyond Doomed Thought

by marseelie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-atypical hopeful ending, Gen, Jon forgets the importance of choice, Martin reminds him, Possible Web!Martin, Post-Episode 146, canon-typical angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 06:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marseelie/pseuds/marseelie
Summary: “You’re right, Martin,” he said, barely audible.  “You’re right.  I’ve been a fool.”“Not a fool.  Only human.”Jon huffed bitterly, a mockery of a laugh.  “Less and less, every day.”Even Martin could not deny the truth in that.Martin stages his own intervention.





	Beyond Doomed Thought

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in the span of four hours, powered by my raging indignation that 1) Jon is surrounded by hypocrites 2) apparently storming some sort of inter-dimensional Web portal without a plan is a good idea and 3) Jon is neck-deep in denial (probably?) If you share my concerns, this is the fic for you.  
> Title from E.E. Cummings "A Connotation of Infinity."

Martin was installing updates on Peter’s laptop when there was a knock on his office door. Had he locked it? He hoped so. He didn’t want anyone coming in. He held his breath, hoping that if he didn’t make a sound, they would just leave. It was easier this way. If he didn’t allow anyone to get close, then he wouldn’t have to drive them away.

“Martin, I know you’re in there,” Basira said, her tone impassive. Martin was usually good at reading people, but lately she was absolutely opaque. Martin, always fond of metaphors, thought of her as a well: deep and dark. The only thoughts or feelings that anyone else ever saw were the ones they dredged up, hand over hand. Once upon a time, he might have written a poem about her. He didn’t write poems about other people anymore. He tried not to _think_ about other people anymore, beyond their utility. It went against his nature, but he was getting better at it.

“This is for you,” Basira continued, when Martin let the silence stretch. “A tape for a tape. And for God’s sake, if you don’t like what Jon’s doing, talk to him yourself. We’re not here to do your dirty work.”

She slid something under his door and left, her footsteps retreating. Martin was simultaneously relieved and disappointed to hear her leave. It was for the best.

But he was just... so lonely.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew Peter was isolating him. He was sure that Peter’s God was lapping his misery right up. But that didn’t mean Peter was wrong. If Peter _was_ wrong, if by extension _Martin_ was wrong… no, Martin shied away from the thought. He’d burned too many bridges to entertain the idea that it had all been for nothing.

Martin looked at the laptop. _Configuring Windows updates. 11% complete_. He wished Peter would get a MacBook; Windows was so slow. Well. Nothing better to do than to listen to whatever Basira had left him. It would probably be the closest thing to real human contact that he would get all day. Peter Lukas, being a monster, didn’t count.

Martin went to the door and retrieved the tape. He had pressed play before he sat down in his chair again.

It was Jon’s voice, and that made Martin feel peculiarly hollow, buzzing like a bell that had just been rung. He didn’t waste time puzzling out what it meant. There were more important things than feelings.

“Statement of Marcus Mackenzie, regarding a series of unexplored entryways,” Jon said. “Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins.”

Martin leaned back, closed his eyes, and drank in the sound of another person’s voice. Of _Jon’s_ voice.

Martin paced the room, still clutching the silent tape recorder. Five people. _Five_ people. Five innocent people, pinned under the Eye’s gaze like slides on a microscope. Pinned under Jon’s gaze. Martin didn’t even know where Jon ended and his God began.

Jon didn’t sound like he knew either.

But Martin did know one thing. The Web wasn’t responsible for Jon’s behavior. Jon was just looking for someone, or something, else to blame. It was such a human thing, to find a scapegoat, that it made Martin feel better. If Jon couldn’t accept responsibility for what he’d done, then he must know how wrong it was. How deeply, horribly wrong.

Martin, cursed with a well-developed sense of empathy, couldn’t help but imagine what Jon’s victims were going through. It was easy. The feeling of being watched, the paranoia, the anxiety, the _fear_ , these were emotions he knew intimately.

They probably woke from nightmares every night feeling the same way Martin did.

Martin relished the thought. At least he was not alone in one thing: his fear.

And then he felt sick.

Moving on. There were more important things than feelings. What could he, Martin Blackwood, do about this situation? Visiting Hilltop Road would be a complete waste of time, not to mention incredibly dangerous. For God’s sake, these people were supposed to be _smart._ And for Jon to agree to their half-baked scheme… Martin, faked educational credentials notwithstanding, knew that he was clever, at the very least. He could make a working plan and stick to it, as long as someone else didn’t bulldoze over his plan with their complete _lack_ of plans. Someone like Basira. For all Basira’s machinations with Elias, for all her book-smarts, she wasn’t very clever, was she? She was forcing his hand. He had to put a stop to this. And that meant talking to Jon.

This was very bad for Martin’s plan. But it was very good for Martin.

Suddenly he couldn’t stand to be alone in his office a moment longer. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, which contained dozens of tape recorders, retrieved one of them, and left, slamming the door shut on his way out. It felt good to make himself heard.

*

Martin knocked on the door to Jon’s office, and was surprised when three voices answered, with varying degrees of irritation, “Come in.” 

He opened the door. It creaked terribly, and he winced. He stepped inside, shrinking under three sets of eyes; one dull, one curious, and one angry. At least when he was alone, he never felt small.

Jon slumped in his chair, greying hair disheveled. He looked awful, not physically--though he was as stretched and grey as ever--but emotionally. Martin could read his distress in the lines of his face. Daisy perched on the edge of Jon’s desk, expression subdued and hands clasped tightly, while Melanie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, drumming her fingers.

For all the tension, entering the office still felt like coming home. Martin had almost forgotten how lived-in it was (unsurprising, seeing as Jon basically _did_ live in it), in stark contrast to his own sterile room. The place resisted personalization, anything that might confirm that _yes,_ there was a person named Martin Blackwood, and _yes,_ this was his office, couldn’t you tell by the tea kettle and the neat boxes of Earl Grey and the books of poetry and the journals? Anything personal Martin brought into the room would be swallowed by the next day--he’d lost three kettles that way--and he couldn’t write any poetry there. When he was in the room, he couldn't think of anything worth writing about.

Jon’s office was cramped and cluttered and smelled like old paper and stale tea. He had three mugs of the stuff on his desk, none completely finished. One of them had been a birthday present from Martin; it said _Birthday Girl_ in big pink glittery letters. He’d found it at Oxfam and bought it before he could talk himself out of it. They’d told Jon it was from all of them, Sasha and Tim and Martin, but everyone knew it was really from Martin, because no one else had known when Jon’s birthday was. The look on Jon’s face when he’d opened it…

And now, Jon was in front of him, looking scared and defiant and brittle. With Martin’s mug on his desk. 

Martin could only stand and blink as his fragile compartmentalization collapsed.

“I’ll be right back,” he declared. “Don’t go anywhere.”

*

He returned several minutes later with a mug of steaming tea and offered it to Jon, who took it mutely.

“I want to talk to Jon,” Martin said, turning to Daisy and Melanie. “Alone.”

Melanie shrugged and left immediately. Daisy followed more slowly, looking unsure, which clashed with Martin’s memories of her. At the threshold, she turned back. She almost looked like she was sizing Martin up. That was more like the Daisy he knew.

"Don't hurt him any more," she said lowly. "He's been hurt enough."

And then she was gone, and it was just Martin and Jon.

Martin settled himself in the chair across from Jon, usually reserved for statement-givers. He was distantly aware of a tape recorder clicking on. He wasn’t quite sure how to start. There were so many things that needed to be said. Jon only looked at him, something deep and wounded in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Martin blurted. That was what needed to be said the most. “It--it wasn’t anything you did. That’s not why I cut myself off. It’s important to me that you know that. That you didn’t do anything wrong. At least, not then. I mean, all you’d done was wake up from a coma, which is actually pretty impressive, all things considered, so how could I--”

Martin cut himself off and re-focused.

“I… was told that it would be a long time. Until you might wake up. If you ever did. So I--I didn’t think it would matter, me working with Lukas. And everyone else that I cared about was… dead. I mean Tim and Sasha were gone. And I don’t have a lot of friends outside work, not after Prentiss. And then my mum died. So it didn’t seem like a big deal, to, y’know, isolate myself. I didn’t really anticipate how lonely it is. I mean, I don’t need other people, never have, but… just because I don’t need them doesn’t mean I don’t miss them. I miss _you_.”

Jon still didn’t speak, though he looked like he wanted to. Perhaps, Martin thought, Jon was holding in his questions, so he couldn’t force Martin to say anything he didn’t want to.

He knew holding back had been hard for Jon, lately. The consideration made him feel--warm.

"I can't tell you why I had to do it. I'm sorry, but I can’t, or this won’t work, and you--I just can’t. Trust me. You _know_ that I’m capable of handling myself, if I weren’t I’d be dead. And I mean, I’ve been running the whole Institute, basically, with Elias gone, and Peter just shows up so I can fix his laptop while he vanishes people, we’re working on that, he's getting better at conflict resolution… Anyway, what was I saying? You can trust me. I _need_ you to trust me. But the isolation is just not working because I’m _trying_ to _protect_ you over here, all by myself, but it’s hard to protect someone who can’t stay safe for just _ten minutes_ , because they keep throwing themselves into ridiculously dangerous situations with absolutely no planning or forethought at all, and I realize that Basira is enabling you and I’m considering the possibility that she’s actively trying to get you killed, but you have to admit, you've been really stupid. You’re supposed to be _smart_.”

Martin paused, aware that he had lost his point.

“Sorry for the--the rambling, I’m out of practice, not that I was very good at talking in the first place. I think that was more words than I’ve said in the past month. Anyway, all of that goes to say that going to Hilltop Road is a terrible, awful, horrible idea. And please don’t do it.”

Jon’s mouth hung open. He shut it with effort and gathered himself visibly, clearing his throat.

“Setting aside everything else you’ve said--and we’ll get to that later--why is going to Hilltop Road a bad idea?” Jon asked, his voice carefully absent of compulsion.

“Because the Web’s not manipulating you, Jon. Well, not the way you think it is. I know how manipulation works. I know how the Web works. And I know how you work. The Web wants you to go to Hilltop Road. I don’t know why it wants you there. Not to give you any answers, that’s for sure. And definitely not the answer you want.

“Jon, you’re not.... um, stealing statements--which is, which is very wrong, but you know that already, that’s why you can’t believe you would do it under your own power--because of the Web. I think you know that already. You just don’t want to believe it.”

A heavy silence. Martin became aware that his heartbeat was thrumming too fast. Jon’s face was smooth, like deep water, but in the depths, something moved.

All at once, he seemed to--crumple. Like he didn’t even have the energy to hold himself upright. he covered his face with his hands. “You’re right, Martin,” he said, barely audible. “You’re right. I’ve been a fool.”

“Not a fool. Only human.”

Jon huffed bitterly, a mockery of a laugh. “Less and less, every day.”

Even Martin could not deny the truth in that.

“Jon, why do you do it?" He asked. "I’m not asking so I can, I can, condemn you with your answer. I’m asking so that I can understand. And maybe so I can help you.”

Jon shook his head, not in refusal, but in frustration.

“It’s--it’s hard to explain. I get ill, if I haven’t read a statement recently. And it’s been getting worse. I can barely go twelve hours without one. Some are better than others. They fill me up. Those ones, they draw my eye, I guess you could say. And I can’t look away. I just can’t. It’s like--like looking at something without glasses on. I try to figure out what it is, because if I know what it is, I can look away. But I can’t, because it’s too blurry, and the more I look at it, the more I need to figure out what it _is_ , and if I could only put the glasses on, I would _know_. And sometimes, I just, I just, I have to put them on. Because otherwise I’ll never be able to look away, to move on. I won’t. And then I won’t ever see anything else.” Jon’s eyes were far away; what he was seeing, Martin had no idea. “I'm so hungry, Martin. I want to see _everything_.”

Martin measured his breathing. In, out. Jon would not see that he was scared. Jon would not see that he was worried that maybe, maybe, he was too late. That Jon had crossed a line.

“Jon,” he said, “when you were in the coffin, rescuing Daisy, I, um, I covered the coffin in tape recorders. Which sounds weird when you say it out loud, but it made sense at the time. I thought they might... anchor you. They might help you find your way out. And, well, they were doing _something_ , I guess, because they picked up a lot of what you and Daisy talked about, when you found her.”

Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder that he’d taken from his bottom drawer.

“I think… I think maybe you’ve forgotten what you said to her.”

He started the recording. Daisy’s tinny, trembling voice filled the room.

“I don't want to be a sadistic predator again. I--I don't want to hobble around like some… pathetic wounded prey, here. I don't know which would be worse. But I'm scared now. That I won't ever get the choice.”

There was a brief silence, and then just as Martin knew he would, Jon said the words that he had clung to for weeks now, hoping desperately that Jon would remember without being reminded, that he would realize just how much being human was a _choice_ you had to make--

“One thing I've learned, Daisy, is that we all get a choice. Even if it doesn't feel like one.”

Martin shut off the tape recorder.

“Jon,” he said softly, “You’re not alone. Melanie was an avatar of the Slaughter. Daisy was an avatar of the Hunt. And I know it seems like they’ve forgotten that, like they’ve abandoned you. It isn’t fair that they blamed you like they did. You know as well as I do that they did terrible things in the name of their Gods. They should understand, and I’m sorry that they don’t. But--but what’s important is that they’re _still here_. They're still fighting, and they're still human. Jon, Daisy listened to you down there. She heard you say there was a choice. And when she got out… she chose to be human. You say that you can’t look away. That you feel there’s no choice. But Jon--”

“There’s always a choice,” Jon murmured. “Even if it doesn’t feel like one.”


End file.
